Flaming pants.

The six-year-old’s storytelling repertoire is extensive.  This is never so beautifully illustrated as when said 6yo is, say, confronted with a broken rule.  I give you the following exchange from this morning:

Me:  Please do not jump on the couch.
K:  I didn’t jump on the couch.

*see Couch, cushions sagging, wood creaking*

Me:  Sweetie, I saw you do it.  Just please don’t do it again.
K:  Mom, I really didn’t.  I was under attack, and I had to save my family from Darth Maul  and the Sand Troopers, and they flung me across the living room.  I just missed the coffee table, see where I scraped my ankle?  See?  I tried to sit nicely but they pushed me down and I just barely caught myself  in time.  *sigh* You never listen to me.  I really tried to sit but they attacked me and pushed me down.

Me:  Perhaps Darth Maul can buy us a new couch with your piggy bank.
K:  Ok.
Me:  Please.  Don’t.  Jump.  On. The. Couch.
K:  O-kay, okay okay.

~~~ five minutes later,  a whooshing noise followed by a muffled thud. ~~~~

Me:  What did I say about jumping on the couch?
K:   I didn’t jump on the couch.  I just fell a little when I was climbing.
Me:  If the rule is no jumping on the couch, what do you think the rule is about falling on the couch?
K:  Only do it if you are under attack.

So, is this a harbinger of future cat-skinning, juvenile court doom or simply harmless, developmentally appropriate fun?

I am so grateful for his imagination.  I adore his  sense of humor, and soaring drive for adventure, I really do.  But what’s embarrassing is that – and I really do know better- for a second I feel like he thinks I’m not bright enough to know what he’s doing.  Ridiculous, I know, but that’s where I have to pause and check my temper.

He’s not some jerk calling me “sweetbuns” as he shoves past me on the subway.  This is my son, my sweet kid who’s just finding his way and learning boundaries.

And then, at least right now, he jumps up and down on them a bit to see what I’ll do.


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